


We're Missing Little Orphan Annie

by Birdhouse



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdhouse/pseuds/Birdhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippits of different lives in a different time...or, the One Where Nate might Become Head Of An Army Of Street Urchins During The Great Depression. YMMV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Missing Little Orphan Annie

“We’re missing Little Orphan Annie.” Parker’s scuffed Mary Janes hit Alec’s shoulder. He straightened up from peering under the rusty Model T to see she wasn’t even looking at him. She stared, wistfully, through the snow, blue eyes bright under her overlarge pageboy hat. The boy turned to see what she was looking at – the window across the slushy street, lit up warm and golden.

 

“I didn’t know they’d throw us out, Alec,” the girl said a few seconds later, looking up at him. “I really didn’t.”

 

The right words wouldn’t come. It had only been an apple.

 

“I know.”

 

*

 

Eliot scrubbed the pot until his sore knuckles turned red. This was his first job in the city. _You’re twelve now, Eliot,_ his momma said, _you can’t always fight._

 

It was harder now since Momma passed on, leaving him here with his sisters back home, but. There wasn’t much he could do until he earned enough for the train ticket. He rubbed harder, feeling his eyes water. He blinked the tears away, annoyed by the tightness in his throat.

 

“Hey, momma’s boy!” Someone yanked his hair. He bellowed and spun and-

 

He doesn’t remember sockin’ the guy, really, but that’s what they tell him when they kick him out.

 

*

 

The Great Depression had affected everything. Not just here in America, but back home in London too. Sophie Devereaux sat on the steps of the acting consortium, clutching the letter in her gloved hands. _Miss Devereaux_ , it said, in letters she had already memorized _, while we sympathize with your situation, the Consortium of Acting is not in the position to offer scholarships in these troubled times…_

Three years ago, she’d burned her bridges with home to come to school here. Now, the carpet bag at her feet held all her worldly possessions, and she…

 

She pushed herself to her feet, shook her dark hair out behind her, and took the rest of the steps with all the pride of someone shaking the dust from their feet and trying very hard not to think of their growling belly.

 

 

*

 

“Father Paul!”

 

Nate carefully navigated his way through the soup line, moving past little kids and teens and pausing at the very end next to the old woman who looked seconds away from collapsing. He practically bounced on his heels, clearly excited about something, when the father holding the ladle (a man not that much older than Nate himself) gave him a reproachful look. Nate was about to return it when Paul held out the bowl of soup and he caught on.  

 

“Here, Mrs. Green,” he said, taking the soup, “let me help you.”

 

The old lady smiled at him when he guided her to her seat. He tried to smile back, tried not to think about the fact that Jimmy Ford technically owned her house, and returned to the front of the line.

 

Paul still scowled. All the excitement about heading West dissolved.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Your pop,” Paul said back, his tone uncharacteristically acerbic, heedless of the ears on him – the little black boy with bright, curious eyes; a tiny girl in a too-big hat, the darkly elegant young woman sitting next to Mrs. Green; heedless of the sinking Nate could feel in his guts, “is shutting us down.”

 

 

*

 

So. Go ahead and ask Nate Ford, wanna-be businessman, how he wound up leading a trio of street-wise kids and a scarily brilliant young actress against _his father_.

 

Go ahead and ask.

 

He won’t be able to tell you, for certain, but he’ll sure as shooting _try_.


End file.
